


Finding Equilibrium

by Anonymous



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alexis | Quackity Angst, Alexis | Quackity-centric, Anarchist Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Angst, Duck Hybrid Alexis | Quackity, Enemies to Friends, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Past Abuse, Video Game Mechanics, Winged Alexis | Quackity, Winged Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), aka quackity gets some fucking therapy, cough schlatt administration cough
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29755209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Quackity’s memories of his Schlatt administration days are sealed deep in his mind, under lock and key. They simmer there, burning up his heart, but he does a pretty good job at keeping them from boiling over. It’s okay — his feelings (and his wings) are tightly sealed away for his own protection.Then Dream comes along, tears him apart, and destroys any chance of healing he had.He has nowhere left to go and no fucks left to give. So when he’s found by a member of the Anarchist Commune, he fully expects to be put out of his misery.Instead, Quackity finds a home.[Or: Quackity hurts, heals, learns, and finds closure. Oh, and he also makes some friends along the way.]
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Clay | Dream, Alexis | Quackity & Phil Watson, Alexis | Quackity & Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Alexis | Quackity and Introspection
Comments: 12
Kudos: 148
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> El Rapids falls. 
> 
> It’s not Quackity’s first failure, and it sure as hell won’t be his last. He’s learned to live with his mistakes. He doesn’t spend time feeling guilty over things that are in the past.
> 
> But goddamn, if he didn’t regret whatever he did to warrant a kidnapping from Dream himself.

Wilbur blew up his country. Quackity couldn’t keep his together.

Well. At least they have something in common — making terrible fucking decisions.

(He tries not to think about what that says about him and Schlatt.)

Between Manberg and El Rapids, it shouldn’t have been so surprising another nation crumbled under his watch.

What was it that Dream had told him? What did he say back there, while waving independence in front of his face, right out of his grasp?

_”You cause problems, Quackity. That’s what you do.”_

Motherfucker. 

Dickhead. Asshole. Pretentious bastard who would _not stop_ sticking his nose into things that didn’t concern him. 

Now El Rapids is abandoned and its former citizens are scattered and Quackity is biting down on gag, quivering with rage.

His face aches and the scar stretching across it burns, but those are nothing, _nothing_ , compared to the stifling pain seizing up his wings. They’re suffocating under his jacket, straining under the fabric and it almost feels like they’re going to burst into flames from the heat the Nether possesses. 

Rope binds his ankles and wrists and of course Dream had to use the horrid, scratchy kind that would probably scrub his skin right off. 

He’d open his mouth and say something witty if it weren’t for the gag and the fact that he’s being dragged across literal hell right now. 

(His tongue is one of the few things that give him weight on this server that only seems to understand violence. 

He can talk his way out of things if he runs his mouth fast enough; he relies on his wit, albeit a little too heavily, to keep him safe. He always has.

Not that it was much help now. This time around, it got him kidnapped, tied up, and sent to the Nether in under an hour, tops.

His overheated, exhausted brain can only remember bits and pieces of the argument. It was in El Rapids where he and Dream had gone toe-to-toe with each other. Something about the country, about leadership, about terrorism and tyranny... Even now, he thinks he’d done a pretty great job on dismantling each of Dream’s claims.)

The giant brown sack he’s stuck in doesn’t help with the heat issue. The ventilation is fucking terrible and if he continues sweating at the rate he’s going right now he’ll drain himself of water before they get to wherever Dream’s taking them.

God, he hopes he does. Quackity can only pray that he’s set a spawn bed and maybe he’ll die before that green freak can enact whatever punishment he has in plan.

He bites down another grunt as he’s heaved over the forty-seventh fucking rock the past twenty minutes or so. The heat is really getting to him, now. There’d be no harm in passing out, would there? He can’t see where he is, anyway, so Quackity takes one last deep breath through his hoarse throat and closes his eyes, waiting for everything to go dark. 

It doesn’t take long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not gonna lie, my plot for this story is pretty vague so far, so i’ll be fleshing it out as we go. constructive criticism and feedback always helps!
> 
> tell me what you think in the comments :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Butcher Army rises.
> 
> This is... certainly an inconvenience for Dream. 
> 
> It doesn’t matter — he’ll crush them just like he crushed every other resistance. 
> 
> He starts (and ends) with their leader.

Dream considers himself to be a reasonable man.

He’s been pretty fair to the members of the SMP; they live on _his_ land, after all. They could have it a lot worse. 

Dream appreciates when his citizens get along well. He likes when everyone’s working in harmony, he likes his people to be in order, and he _especially_ likes stomping out those inane little uprisings that arise every once in a while. 

He does not appreciate people challenging his authority. He does not like it when they engage him in a petty debate over _dethroning_ and _tyranny_ and _terrorist attacks_ disguised as “political moves.”

Quackity has somehow managed to get on every single nerve of his. Quackity, who is, admittedly, one of the few people who is competent enough to argue against him. 

(Dream wouldn’t have expected it a few months ago, from the hysterical drug dealer who stripped down to his underwear as often as he pleased. But he’s learned to analyze people now, and Quackity is no exception.)

Dream, however, is merciful, and trivial spats with your local crackhead mean little to him. He’s willing to overlook that staged explosion at Eret’s castle. He’s even willing to name El Rapids as a country — though he’s not sure what this accomplished, it quieted the unrest that Quackity had stirred up.

No, those minor conflicts didn’t matter.

Then the Butcher Army was assembled, Technoblade was kidnapped, and Dream knew a threat when he saw one.

Technoblade’s weakness, as is everybody else’s, is attachment. It’s laughable how easy it is to control someone once you have what they want. Obviously, it’s something Quackity’s learned, if the way he took Carl hostage was of any indication.

Dream had watched from a safe distance as Technoblade was escorted to L’manberg, a murderous glare on his face that did nothing to halt the hysterical laughter that came from their bloody-aproned leader.

The Butcher Army sowed seeds of unease into Dream’s mind. 

It was not their strength — or lack thereof — that unnerved him. It was the way Quackity held himself, with confidence and cunning, persuading Tubbo and Fundy into his plans of assassination. It was the way he planned his moves, with a quiet strength that stemmed from his intelligence, something you wouldn’t notice from his usual behavior. 

It was the way Quackity listed every single man on his hit list, and listed every single way they could assassinate him. 

Dream wasn’t very worried at first. He would, without a doubt, pummel him into the dirt if Quackity were stupid enough to cross the literal owner of the server. But he considers Technoblade’s planned execution, Philza’s house arrest, and Quackity’s hidden, crafty nature.

He decides this is not a risk he’s willing to take.

The Butcher Army’s leader can unpredictable at the worst of times, switching between two moods on a whim. That, paired with his quick tongue and wit, would grow the army into something far more treacherous than what it started as. 

Dream muses over the fact that even in its beginning stages, the army subdued both the Blade and the Angel of Death. It’s worrying, honestly. He can see their potential, and Dream has underestimated his enemies before. He’s not about to do it again.

So when Techno flees to the final control room, he follows, and supplies him with Carl, armor, and weapons. Technoblade is an honorable man, and more importantly, one who now owes him a favor. If Dream plays his cards right, he’ll have his assistance when he needs it most.

He leaves the room. Moments later, he listens behind a wall as netherite glides easily through flesh and bone. Quackity’s scream does not evoke any sympathy; it annoys him, with the shrill way it makes his ears ring.

Quackity’s entire existence is rather bothersome, actually. And Dream can’t afford to have him go after any more targets on his hit list, lest he succeeds. That kind of terrorism will not be tolerated on his SMP.

While Technoblade escapes, and while the rest of the army scrambles to find their leader, Dream makes plans.

He finds Quackity’s respawn bed, located in a snug little dirt shack nearby. He looks down at the unconscious face, marred by a still-healing scar that snaked across his cheek.

He takes out rope, a discarded sack, and a strip of cloth.

With one destination in mind, he gets to work.

——

Dream considers himself to be a reasonable man.

This, he thinks, is well within the bounds of being reasonable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dream pov! i hope i did his character justice. his motives and reasoning are so fun to write. 
> 
> this is just a little more background info, i promise i’ll get to actual dialogue and action soon!
> 
> comments & feedback are always appreciated :]


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quackity finally gets some answers. 
> 
> That doesn’t mean he has to like them.

When Quackity dreams, he dreams of burning ram horns and the stench of whiskey and smoke mixing together to become that familiar scent he’s come to associate with _Schlatt_ in his mind. 

He dreams of glowing yellow offices and golden rings that hold empty vows. He dreams of warm hands gripping his arm tighter and tighter, of smooth voices that used to promise him the world turn harsh and demanding, of soft yellow feathers turning matted and dirty under crisp, pressed suits. 

He dreams until the sun-soaked memories in his dreams freeze over and splinter into nightmares that slam him back into reality so hard he’s left gasping for air. More often than not, he wakes up with his old president’s name dying on his lips, paired with an overwhelming urge to flee. It takes a while to remind himself that Schlatt is gone, now, and he’s never coming back.

Quackity doesn’t know if he’s able to believe it when he swears he feels a hot breath on his neck or the burning pressure of a cigarette being put out in his beanie.

(Sometimes, he doesn’t know if he even _wants_ to believe it. He thinks of Schlatt’s wedding ring and his awkward Spanish and their awful lunch dates and he’s hit with a sense of yearning so strong he’s sent reeling. 

Whenever these thoughts come up, Quackity promptly beats them back with a figurative shovel and crams them into the smallest, darkest corner of his mind.)

His memories torment him, even in his unconscious hours, so the relief he feels while waking up after a what’s probably the first dreamless sleep he’s had in weeks is immensely gratifying.

His nap, as it turns out, was not so _Dream-_ less, so to speak.

Quackity blinks his crusty eyes and immediately knows two things: one) he’s definitely not in the Nether anymore, judging by the temperature, and two) he’s still tied up in a bag. 

His wrists are chafed and his throat seems to be on fire, but at least he’s not being cooked alive in hell. It’s nothing less than exhausting to move his limbs more than a inch, so he gives up on that and tries to get his bearings.

The gag is fucking disgusting (he doesn’t even want to think about how long it’s been in his mouth) and his wings are being crushed under his jacket, but he’s never been more glad to have kept his them hidden (who knows what Dream would do?). Well, not quite ‘never’; he’d been under orders to bind them under suits during his days in office, or Schlatt—

Quackity cuts that train of thought off quickly. It doesn’t matter — orders were orders, and he wasn’t about to cut giant holes in his expensive suits just for his own comfort. Keeping his wings under wraps just became a habit after that. Definitely not because he was embarrassed of how unkempt they were from months of binding. 

He perks up when he hears redstone contraptions and pistons getting closer. Every muscle in his body hurts, but he still tenses up as Dream speaks for the second time since his kidnapping. (The first time, their conversation had been a little one-sided, with muffled yelling from the guy with a literal _gag_ in his mouth and evil monologuing coming from Dream. Quackity hadn’t been conscious enough to remember what he said, but it was probably something really fucking stupid.)

“Hello, Sam.”

_What the fuck?_

His heart stutters in his chest, hearing that name. Sam? _Sam?_ _Awesamdude_ Sam? Is there another Sam on the server?

“Dream.” Sam doesn’t sound too excited about seeing him.

Why is _Sam_ , of all people, talking to Dream? A scalding sense of betrayal stabs him. _Please, please please please don’t tell me he’s working with him._

Quackity strains his ears to catch any bits of their conversation, but they’ve both fallen silent. Sam is tinkering with something; there are tapping noises that sounds vaguely metallic coming from his general direction.

A throat is cleared. 

“So,” Dream prompts. 

_Get on with it_ , Quackity thinks.

“How’s it coming along?”

Sam hums noncommittally. “The exterior is finished. I’m just fixing some of the wiring and lights.” He hears fabric shifting above him. “What’s that?”

”This?” The hand holding his burlap prison shakes it, and Quackity fights back the wave of nausea that overcomes him.

“This is a problem, and Pandora’s Vault is the solution.” 

_What the fuck is that_ , he thinks, fiercely chewing the gag to keep from throwing up. 

“The vault?” Sam sounds faintly displeased. “The main cell isn’t done yet, and I still have to bring in the elder guardian.” 

“No need — this one will probably be low-maintenance. One of the smaller rooms will do just fine.”

With his mind spinning from the violent shaking, Quackity distantly wonders if they’re still talking about him. He relaxes, just slightly, as the motion sickness subsides.

 _Say something,_ he screams at himself, _Tell Sam you’re in here, tell him you were kidnapped—_

The bag starts sliding again. “Lead the way,” Dream says.

His stomach lurches again as he’s jostled around in the sack before he can alert his pseudo-dad of his situation. Fuck, his head is spinning and his mouth feels like it’s moving through molasses and he can’t see _anything_.

Everything about this situation is rubbing him the wrong way, especially Sam’s involvement. Quackity can only hope that he’s not genuinely on Dream’s side. 

They turn a few corners, and their footsteps start echoing more and more as their walk. The _clink_ of Sam’s gold boots is something that’s almost familiar. Dream’s shoes are leathery and padded, making barely a noise as he strolls. Quackity’s seen them before. They were ugly as fuck. 

Wherever they are must be dark and empty — it sounds like a cave, with torches crackling and water dripping. Maybe he’ll be buried alive here? Is that what Dream plans for him?

Will he see Schlatt in hell? The thought makes him feel a little more reluctant to die. After all, they’re probably not on good terms following his defection to Pogtopia.

Maybe he’ll see Wilbur, the _real_ Wilbur, not the empty shell of a man that floated idly around L’manberg. He could talk to him, ask him why he did what he did. Would he act as unhinged as he did before? 

Now that Quackity thinks about it, he _really_ doesn’t want to die. Having two evil dead guys as his only company doesn’t sound appealing in the slightest.

(He’d never admit it out loud, but some memories from Pogtopia are ones he will cherish forever. His days in the chilly, windswept ravine lifted tons of weight from his shoulders. It was a nice change from being vice president. 

At least, it _was_ a nice change when Wilbur was still... _there._ )

Nothing would be waiting for him on the other side of death, except for a couple of depraved politicians.

Quackity prays that whatever Dream has in mind won’t take away his last life.

”Here we are,” Sam sighs, and the footsteps come to an abrupt stop.

There’s a metallic rattling sound, and suddenly the floor beneath is shifting. The sound of lava bubbling does not reassure him at all. 

The shifting comes to a stop and he’s pulled over and haphazardly flung into a wall. It’s warm, wherever he is, and the ground is hard as obsidian.

”You can go now. I'll take care of the rest,” says Dream. He hears footsteps fading away in response.

Quackity waits with bated breath, listening as Dream turns to him. 

The bag is yanked up and his world turns upside down when he slides out onto the glassy black floor. So it _was_ obsidian, then.

The whole room is obsidian, actually; it makes up three of the walls and everything else. The fourth wall is something equally dark and polished — concrete? Netherite? The lighting from the crying obsidian is minimal, only outlining a few objects in the room.

He’s shoved over onto to his back and finds two black dots staring at him. “You were awake,” Dream says. 

He bends down and the gag is ripped from his mouth. Quackity coughs and splutters out a “Fuck off.”

He’s ignored in favor of untying the rope binding his wrists and ankles, and the second they’re free he kicks at Dream’s feet. 

His kidnapper isn’t amused. He stomps down on one of his legs, pinning it in place. “You should be grateful you’re still alive.” 

“What the fuck is your problem with me, dude?” 

“It’s not about _my_ problem with you, Quackity. It’s about _you_ becoming a problem for the whole server.” 

“What the hell are you talking about?” he wheezes out, pushing himself up onto his elbows. “How am I a problem for the server? _You_ were the guy who exiled Tommy and dethroned George—”

Dream brings a boot down on his chest, pushing him back down. “What I do is out of necessity. It’s my job to see that the SMP is running smoothly, without any troublemakers stirring up... trouble.”

Quackity winces at the pain that blooms in his wings. “That’s bullshit. You do those things because you’re a tyrant who just wants power over everyone.”

The mask tilts to the side. Somehow, it still seems as if those two dots are still trained directly on him. “And you’re not?”

He gapes at him for a moment. “Are you fucking kidding? I’m nothing like you! I actually care about my friends, for one—”

”Oh, c’mon. You can’t tell me that you don’t also crave power.”

“No, I—”

”You ran against Wilbur to place yourself in a position of power. You pooled votes with Schlatt” —Quackity grimaces at that— “to rule over L’manberg with him. You formed the Butcher Army to eliminate anyone standing in your way.

“You want power, Quackity, just like I do. Just like Schlatt did.”

“Shut up,” he snarls, and closes his fists around Dream’s shoe in an attempt to throw it off him. “I did all that to _prevent_ tyrants from overrunning the country! Wilbur was losing it, he couldn’t be trusted as president, I — how was I supposed to know Schlatt would turn out the same way?”

The foot on his chest doesn’t budge. “Technoblade and Philza still stand as a threat to us! They’re _anarchists_ , for fuck’s sake, they’ll do anything to tear down what we’ve built up. I can’t just let them step all over us again!”

The smiley face leers at him. “Technoblade was retired and you still sought him out for an execution. What is that, if not tyranny?”

Quackity’s breath comes out in short gasps as Dream puts more weight onto the foot pinning him down. “I was trying to _protect_ my home!”

”And you did it by killing a man who resigned in his ways of bloodshed? What good did that do for you? You’ve painted a bigger target on yourself and L’manberg for your enemies to pursue. Your scar”— he jabs a finger at the blemish for emphasis—“is proof of your failure.”

The pain hadn’t even registered until he remembered the pickaxe tearing through his face. “I was doing what was right,” he insists. 

“You were doing things for your own benefit. You were careless in your actions, and now you get to face the consequences.”

Dream finally lifts his foot and turns away. “Tubbo will make a better president without your influence on him.” 

“Fuck you,” he spits out, and the netherite wall opens up, Dream stepping through. It closes behind him, the clang reverberating through the small room. 

He lies there, breathing hard into the abysmal darkness of the room. The interaction leaves him shaking with anger — how could someone as awful as Dream compare them?

Quackity sits up. The scar on his face feels raw when he touches it, and his eye is throbbing. It’ll probably be a while before it heals completely.

He stretches out his legs and unzips his jacket. Letting his wings out for a second seems harmless without anyone around, so he unwraps the bandages that fasten around his torso. 

The first thing he notices about his wings are how _thin_ they are. They fucking _shrunk_ or something, after he bound them, and when he tries to flap them, they flutter pathetically against his back. 

He cranes his neck to look at them, and his feathers— his _feathers—_ they’ve lost their golden sheen, turning filthy and dull in their time of disuse. His flight feathers look crooked and scrawny.

It hits him like a sack of bricks — he can’t fly. He never _could_ fly, in the first place; taking off from the ground was an impossible feat for his wing-to-body ratio. But he could jump off roofs and trees and _glide_ , soar above everyone else and be untethered to the ground. His wings carried him unscathed from trouble and conflict. It was something he gave up for his position in office, a temporary sacrifice for Manberg.

(Turns out it was just another thing Schlatt took from him.)

In a panicked fit, he grabs his primaries in hopes that he can preen them back to their original glory. His hopes fall apart as soon as his feathers do, crumpling in his hands and scattering softly onto the floor. 

“No,” he whispers, and gathers them up in his hands. They’re pale and he holds them lightly, as if they’ll disintegrate at the wrong touch. 

Quackity can’t fly anymore, and the thought makes him want to scream. He no longer has his wings as a safety net for his impulsive actions — he can’t rely on them to escape anymore. He can’t use them at _all_. 

He leans back against the warm obsidian wall. He’s stuck on the ground for an indefinite amount of time, with nothing but his words and subpar fighting.

Quackity doesn’t think he can fly away from this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> longer chapters aren’t really my strong suit, so it took me a while to write this down  
> anyway, now we get a better look at quackity’s situation!  
> i really appreciate all your comments btw!! thank you guys for the support :))
> 
> (also if you noticed me changing the summary like 700 times it’s cause it took me a while to write one that worked for me)


End file.
